


Polaris

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Drarry Discord Writers Corner Drabble Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14983538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: Written for Discord Drarry Server's Drabble Challenge, June 2018. Prompt: "Lumos". Word count limit: 429 words (based on http://wordcounter.net).





	Polaris

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to magpie_fngl for the beta, and running this round of the challenge! <3

You met him at a club, where you danced away your nerves, the jitters from excess adrenaline. You brought him home, to your inner world as frenzied as the outer. You had no inhibitions; the shame you’d meant to feel in his presence was no more than the night playing backdrop for a firework. And your brain was fireworks. He learned that soon enough. The sparks were everything you’d mastered in weeks: Muggle histories and cultures; intricacies of every Wizarding law. The explosions were your daily Op-Eds to _The Prophet_ , your citizen petitions to the Ministry. They were as loud, as colorful and as scorching. _Sound like you_ , he said, amused. _Hermione makes me read all of them_.

You wanted the sun to never set. You had too much to do, even more to say. “You’ve got to sleep, Draco,” he whispered, his bare torso draped over yours. He looked thoroughly fucked, and he was. “Let me finish this,” you said, quill between teeth. You heard nothing back. He was asleep.

You spelled _Lumos_ on his wand and rested it by your bedside. The light was weak, a compromise. You glanced at it, imagined the Polaris—a steadfast guide to your mind’s pyrotechnics, as its radical flare ignited your parchment.

You shouldn’t feel peace, but you did.

  

 

He called it a crash. You called it nothing. You rarely spoke these days.

The parchment fell first, in crumpled balls. Lost were your ideas, your eloquence; an unseen storm had usurped them, doused your fireworks. Owls came to inquire your well-being and you warded your flat, haunted by the judgement, the loathing they’re too polite to express. Exhausted, you slept. A lot.

The sun terrified you. No light would let you rot into the Nothing in your head. He found a Healer-Doctor. “It’s a Muggle disease,” she said, “but true Purebloods don’t exist anymore.” Still, there’s enough Pureblood in you to vomit the Muggle medicine. He cleaned it up, like he’d Banished the litter everyday and aired out the rooms. Like he’d cooked and done laundry and lifted you out of bed to bathe you. He said nothing when he soaped your limp cock, but talked otherwise even when you said nothing back. He smiled, a lot.

Came morning. He tugged the curtains and you cowered, so he spelled _Lumos_ on his wand and rested it by your bedside. The light was weak, a compromise. But it blinked at you, reminded you of the Polaris—a lighthouse where your mind, wrecked and astray, could anchor to.

You shouldn’t feel hope, but you did.

 


End file.
